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Mighty Jacksparrow is an Earth-based sub-intergalactic blogger who enjoys writing and in the same time entertaining his ever-amusing will-kill-to-read fans with sensationally hilarious and at times dramatic musings. This blog offers endless ideas and results; they might be charming most of the times but could be offending in some others. Therefore, it is always noble to remind that if you enjoy the pieces, carry on reading, but if they upset you, do quietly leave like the evening breeze and not like exploding diarrhea, which exactly what you will look like if you ever lose it on me. Enjoy! :D

Friday, December 31, 2010

There are just a few more hours until 2010 meets its end to give way for the whole new twenty-eleven to stop by for quite some time until it too meets the same fate. But whatever it is, we have made it through the year so far with many stories in our hands. Some are good, some are bad and some are in between. These are the handful amount of stories that purely describe what have we become along the way in between two January the firsts.

Well let’s recap.

When we look again precisely a year back, some of us were awfully drowning in shearing waves of sadness and disappointments from various types of eagerly-punching sources; relationship problems, monetary problems, too much problem problems and other directly and indirectly-related things. To balance the condition, some of us were awfully jumping around in flaming cheerfulness, suffocating in endless laughter of total happiness. A year back too, some of us celebrated the New Year alone hiding in their rooms soaked in tears of despair while some lied in arms of beloved ones soaked in tears of joy.

We have experienced many good and bad events this year that shaped us into what we are today on

December the thirty-first.

Some of us welcomed new members in our ring of connections while some lost theirs. Many of our friends became strangers in the end while many of unknown strangers replace them. We grew up to point friends from foes and the opposite just by using our wisdoms we polished all along the year. Some of us fell in love and some of us found their hearts broken by love, sometimes both, sometimes more than once. Some received new people in their families while some bended down on their knees while looking at the deaths of their family members.

In a way or another on the walk here some of us have made it, while some never did.

And tonight, my dear readers, I am sure that all of you will experience mixed feelings that might differ from one another. Some of us might be looking back in times and smile, while some might break down in endless tears. It is very emotional, this year end, always, since it is a common practice that men and women alike charted their performances on a yearly basis, and soon to know the results, the feelings they endure will make them yield into emotional breakdowns. What lies in their hearts, and the reasons why they react in such a way, only they have the real answers.

For myself, the year 2010 taught me a lot of things that perfectly shaped me up into the man I am now. Pain and joy they came alternately and sometimes together. I have seen myself up at the peak with flashing spotlights shone on me, and I have seen myself hugging myself walking under the night downpours all by myself. I have lost friends and I have made foes. I have gained friends and neutralized foes. And most importantly I have realized that the gap in between love and hate is no wider than the diameter of a single human hair.

But it doesn’t matter what happened in the last 364 days of our lives. What really matters is what we feel today when we look back at those 364 days behind us. Try it, and experience those feelings fully at heart. Take a ten minutes break and sit by yourselves alone, and ask yourselves what you feel once you have explored the days in the pasts.

As for myself, I feel tender, warm, and most importantly, loved.

* * *

My dear readers,

Thank you for making this blog cheerful and lively from your continuous visits. Thank you for your supports this whole twenty-ten, and lets us all look forward to the arriving twenty-eleven. May the incoming year promises us endless love and opportunities, and may those of you who will be blanketed in tears of yesterdays tonight will be hugged soon with laughter of tomorrows, while those who will be smiling tonight maintain that smile all over for more years to come.

Thank you again to all my fellow blog, Twitter and Facebook Fanpage followers.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Since the late 90's, I was never really an avid fan of Malaysia soccer team for I found them to be absolute rubbish.

But now time has changed, so has the team.

Malaysian team coach K. Rajagopal has made a very wise decision in my opinion by not placing all the stars in the field - the stars that we knew had almost hit their limit in agility and speed. Instead he placed some very regular-looking kids in his first lineup this time around for AFF Suzuki Cup, and gambled all his trusts by depending only on calculated risks. At the first glance, we Malaysians were not very convinced about their capabilities in slamming the opponent team face first into the ground of defeat, and we thought we were right when we lost an earlier match with Indonesia 1 - 5.

But we were wrong.

Powered by some very young, hot-blooded and powerful men, Malaysian team has shown their worthiness in the overall AFF Suzuki Cup matches and made it all the way through definite hardships to in the end meet a very, very familiar opponent - Indonesia - a team that cost us our previous lost, now coming back for more.

And we smacked them right in the face with 3 goals against none.

This of course has made some very large number of Indonesians to be very angry, since we use to beat them up from time to time in the game of badminton, and now we're kicking them off into an offending defeat. To add more insult to the injury, we were accused of blinding the Indonesian keeper using some very low intensity laser ray - an incident that first took place during the first Malaysia-Indonesia meet in the tournament, but was experienced by our Malaysian goalkeeper.

We did not complain about the laser thing, but the Indonesian keeper swore like a girl over it.

But today despite the endless bashing some avid Malaysian tweeters and I received a couple of days back, we Malaysian won against the Indonesian team in their own ground by aggregate, which I believe up until this point the word has spread around like some massive bubonic plague throughout the country. To which of course I would like to scream my fat off at the Malaysian team soon when they arrive here in our homeland and cry like a baby for their wonderful and sweet winning.

Thank you, Malaysian Team. You are indeed the young tigers of Malaya.

Credit to Tengku Noorlina

* * *

As to name some of the heroes in the team, here are my favorite three:

S Kunalan

My favorite guy to watch him in action. He has been kicked, slammed, thrown, tackled, tackled again and smashed into pieces in various physical ways by the opponent players throughout his entire career as a soccer player. But this guy is just so hard to kill. He hardly got injured despite all the kickboxing moves he received every now and then. He runs like a mad dog - as if he floats on air - and appears just right out of nowhere. Even better, he's the only macha in the field. With his very hardworking attitude and unkillable features, he will surely be K. Rajagopal's gold asset.

Safee Sali

Penyarung jersi nombor 10, Safee Sali has not only a well-built physique for an Asian man, but he works pretty damn well too! God damn it most of his goals were stylishly done and sensationally celebrated. He is one of the key players that can dribble the ball all by himself from the center of the field and feed it lightning fast into the opponent's goal and in the same time causes some to shit their pants whenever he swings that superb leg. And remember that gesture he makes whenever he scores a goal that is kissing the Malaysian badge? Fucking awesome, that is. One hell of a patriotic hero.

Khairul Fahmi Che Mat

The true hero with one kind of a face and that punk-style hairdo. This guy doesn't talk much (though he occasionally screams at other players to "guard the fucking post damn well") but his moves were fantastic. He repeatedly broke many opponents' attempts to score and he protects his goal post as if he protects his own lady. And look at his picture up there. One damn confident looking guy he is, not just by gestures but by personality and efforts too. He is in fact the man of the match, and whatever awards he soon receives for his endless contributions, he deserves them pretty damn well.

And this special appearance of one hell of a coach, there's no definite description for him. He is THE K. Rajagopal. 'Nuff said.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

She wiped her sweating face with her sweating palms. She realized that it was still raining outside when she turned her head and looked through the wet window panes. Yellowish glow from the streetlights dimly lit her room. And there she was in her bed, sweating and gasping for air as she drowned in her own in fears. As she tried to calm down, she degraded into sobbing tears. Her shoulder moved simultaneously as she sobbed, filling the dark, small room with her wailing cries alternately with the rain tapping on the roof outdoor. Her messed up long, wavy hair fell onto her shoulder naturally, covering her downward face entirely. From the glimpse of those shadowy yellowish glow, there were visible drops of tears continuously falling down from her plump rosy cheeks. She bit her lips slowly as she closed her eyes shut in frustrations.

It was always that same damn dream, again.

* * *

She sat at the usual place where he used to sit with her while having their coffees together over endless heartwarming stories and shared laughters. It was always the happiest moment of her life. But today she's sitting at the table alone with no one in the chair opposite of hers, and the only things that occupied her that lovely evening were the sound of breaking waves from the sea, the warm salty breeze blowing slowly onto her and a cup of her most favorite coffee. And of course, the empty seat right in front of her. This caused her to contemplate.

It has been two years since he left her.

And it has been two years too that she suffered from despair, disappointments and frustrations from his sudden flight. It was a very simple breakup, actually, but she got it all bad by herself. Come to think of it, it wasn't the breakup that cost her this endless depression, but how the breakup happened that made it stick in her mind like metal rivet does to a metal sheet. She revisited this only one memory that's left which stabbed her straight to her heart each time she did.

It was a real heartless event.

As she recalled the event, she was taken aback for a bit from the intensity of the memory. It was at this same place that he left her without a word. It was almost at the same time and condition she was currently at. No words were spoken. It was a really pleasant date as she could remember. He was being very gentle and nice as usual. They shared a handful amount of pleasing stories and shared another lot of laughters over their cups of coffee. And then after a long while as she decided to depart with him, she told him that she loved him, also, just like usual. But it went without a reply. Instead all she got was that cold expression on his face for some time before he stood up and left without a single word.

Just like that.

Up until that day she still thought about why it happened. She didn't exactly know where he was after that, and it wasn't her intention too to find him back, mainly due to the shock he gave to her when he did his unexplained maneuver. She left her hanging, and this cost her more than just her days but also her nights. Since the day it happened, for almost everyday she experienced the same dream - about him and her during their happier days - only to wake up in the middle of the night sweating and depressed from her own reality check. They were devastating, tiring and as to add more insult to the injury, they were unreal. She was tired of crying, and she was tired of wailing, of everything. She wanted an end to it. There has to be an end to it.

There must be an end to it.

But she still loved him, though. Secretly she had been supplying him his favorite coffee beans every now and then when he made orders through the phone. At least he never knew that she was a staff at the only coffee tavern in town, the only place where his favorite coffee beans can be purchased. She had been doing this since before she knew him, and it was only recently around some weeks back that she realized the person she was talking to on the phone regarding coffee beans purchase all these times was him all along. But she decided to send him his last order yesterday before she quitted the job since she couldn't take it anymore of those heartbreaks she had each time she listened to his voice. It was a special brew packet of fresh coffee beans that she sent him anyway - a mix of Costa Rican black, robusta, arabica and mild south beans, along with a handful of deadly nightshade berries and castor beans - two of the most poisonous fruits known to mankind. A bit of a memorable gift, she thought, and she hope he wouldn't realize the malty taste the coffee will give due to the castor beans, at least not when he is still able to make emergency phone calls as his main organ system shuts down one after another. After all, there has to be an end for everything, including her dreams. There must be an end to it.

And that night she told to herself that, it was almost time to put an end to it.

* * *

It didn't happen.

The dream, the same heartbreaking dream still occurred to her despite the sleeping pills, meditations, psychiatric consultations and even a few visits to that cheating shrink somewhere in the uptown. She has tried everything, and everything didn't work. She cried in her bed still, still shocked from the reoccurring dream. She was disappointed that despite her endless efforts to forget that bastard he still was there lingering in her mind. Was it just a subconscious mindplay? Or was it a signal? Signal that suggested that he too was thinking of her? But he has another lady by his side already, or at least that was what she was told. So what exactly was all the dreams? Why the hell he stayed in her mind, what the hell for? She must have been gotten out of her mind, she thought.

So be it.

She got out of her bed and dashed to the house entrance and opened the door. She ran into the rain to only one location she had always frequented - the cafe where he left her - a mere kilometer away. The road was wet and she ran barefooted through the rain in her pajama. There was nothing else in her mind but to burn the cafe down along with the table she had always been with him, along with her unforgettable memories. She held the red sling bag, a present from him, that she had on the bedside table closely to her body to make sure that the lighters and the petrol won't get wet from the rain. And she cried all the way. She has gotten out of her own mind, in search for an eternal solace that never will come.

When she reached the beach side cafe, it was dark and empty, close for business. She ran up the wooden staircase to the patio where the memorable table was. A few more steps to the table and she lost control of her legs and slipped forward.

The last thing she was was the edge of the metal table coming straight in her way.

* * *

What a weird dream, she said.

She just woke up from a terrible dream about herself not being able to sleep for two years from the breakup she had with that bastard sometime ago. It was totally depressing and confusing when she thought about it. Depressing because she died in that dream from that head-on collision with the metal table, and confusing because in the dream it was him that left her, while the real thing was that she was the one who left him. It was as if the dream switched her role with his.

What a weird dream.

Not wanting to be bothered anymore that fine morning, she got out of bed and to her kitchen to make some quick breakfast. On the way to the kitchen she turned on the TV with the volume muted. At the kitchen she fixed the curtain so that sunlight entered the kitchen at a higher intensity to warm up the cold morning surrounding. She made a set of toast and spread some chocolate paste on it and flipped it around. She poured herself a cup of her favorite coffee from her automatic coffee brewer and went to the living hall for the TV.

As she approached the TV, the news was on. She looked at the news anchor lady reading the news and tried to capture word from lip reading. She couldn't catch any so she just watched the news and nodded her head as if she understood. She bit into her toast and drank her coffee. Wow, she said to herself, even the coffee tasted funny this morning. It couldn't be spoiled because she only received it yesterday. She drank it up anyway.

And then a footage came in. It was a person lying dead on some wooden floor due to a 'slip and fall accident' as shown on the screen below the footage. She stopped munching. That figure in wet pajama seemed to be so familiar to her. Even the place where they found the dead body seemed to be perfectly familiar. It was the cafe where she used to go with her ex boyfriend - the one she called the bastard for no particular reason despite his efforts to loving her endlessly, the bastard whom she left without a single word spoken long ago, the bastard who she played his heart with just for the fun of it. And that bag they found next to the body, wasn't that the same red sling bag she gave him as a birthday present before? Wait, she paused and tried to think, she tried to relate something to something. And at the same time the footage showed a small portrait photo of what appeared to be the person who was found dead at the cafe this morning, seeding a terrifying horror right into her mind.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Father has moved two of the cars out from the porch area to make way for the incoming crowd. It was ten o'clock in the morning and the weather looks rather gloomy than every other days. In fact there was a slight downpour this morning that probably was the cause why these people arrived rather late than they were supposed to. But you guess it doesn't matter as long as these people are here. At least they can cheer up the mood a bit. It is a bit too gloomy in here.

As you sit at the corner of the porch, you look at these people who mostly come in pair as husbands and wives and some couples of girls and boys. But hardly there is any laughter in the air. They all wear the traditional Malay costume - a baju Melayu, a sarong (though some are seen in pants) and a songkok for male while a pair of baju kurong and a scarf for female. The males gather outside after they shook hands with your father, who is in a black-colored baju Melayu and a black-with-white-stripes sarong, conversing and listening to him. The females however walk their way into the main hall of the house, leaving their shoes neatly by the main door that is opened widely for their entrance. Chattering can be heard but they all mix up that you can only catch one or two words at a time.

But that doesn't bother you much, though.

You moved the plastic chair you are sitting in to take a peek inside the house through an open window. You can see the females lining up along the wall and take their seats. Some of them make a small walk to your mother who is sitting at a point off-center in her blue baju kurong and her white scarf. She seems to be very sad, and you don't need to look closely to notice that her nose is red and there are still tears rolling down her aged cheeks. She wipes her tears with an end of her scarf as the fellow ladies rub her back slowly as to ease her pain. In front of her lies a body on a single-size mattress covered with a long batik sarong - a body from which her eyes is pinning at all these while. As the standing fan blows wind to ventilate the hall, the batek sarong moves a bit revealing some white-color fabric that you believe is the burying shroud.

And slowly you notice the mass recitation of scriptures from the holy book. This one particular scripture that is recited over and over during this kind of gathering - visiting the dead for last respect. The sounds of it drives sadness in you - the sounds of wailing of women, blended with the mood and the gloomy weather. And now it slowly is getting back to you. Of why these people are here, the despair states of your father and mother, and that body lying motionlessly at the center of the family hall. And suddenly it occurs to you; the heartache, the guilt, the sadness and sorrows you never have had imagine your whole life.

If only you let your sister drive last night instead of you.

* * *

You were rather sleepy, actually.

The food was great and fitted your appetite finely, especially the juicy grills and the marvelous desserts. But the coffee however was not so strong up to your expectations, and despite the two cups of coffee you had you were still kind of sleepy. Your sister and yourself were attending this small gathering with childhood friends at a restaurant somewhere around town, and all of the people attending had much fun updating each other after years of separation. It took three damn hours foe everyone to call the gathering off, and you were feeling rather relived because it was still a long way back home.

The time was around midnight when you turned on the engine and started driving, despite the fact that your sister insisted to drive the car like she did on the way to the restaurant. But the fact that she was driving too slow made you took over the wheels and drove the car instead. In the road there was hardly a car at all. Not very strange anyway at this part of road leading you two back home. Except for some midnight lorries, hardly anyone used that road at night. It was a very dark night and it was lightly raining, provoking you to stay the hell awake and to keep your senses at work.

The music played some very entertaining songs. Your sister started to hum to the songs despite of her protests against you driving back. Without you knowing, both of you were singing the songs together and the otherwise silent night became very lively. It was around 5 kilometers more to reach home, so you sped up the car a bit to match with time. It sure was lonely and dangerous out there. Lucky for the both of you that at the end of the long, straight road there appeared to be a lorry slowly coming at the opposite direction. Well at least there was somebody on the road.

As the lorry got closer, you could see its huge lights showering the wet road. Your sister was still singing and clapping her hands. That was when you saw the lorry giving you some high beam signals. But you were not using any high beam, so what was the lorry driver trying to tell? The lorry was only around 20 meters away as both vehicle made each way closing in at each other at totally different lane. There seemed to be nothing wrong, you thought, so you maintained the speed nevertheless.

Until you saw it.

There was a bump on the road directly in front of you. And realizing this you freaked out and slammed on the brake. The lorry was getting closer. The car skidded and started to change its direction from the skidding. As the car got closer to the huge bump, the shimmering light revealed that it was a dead cow that probably died after being hit earlier by a lorry that passed the road. The carcass was so clear as the light went more intense. And then you realized that the light wasn't coming from your car. It came from the lorry, that by that time was honking at you like hell as time went by so slowly that everything went in slow motion - from the moment the car began to miss the carcass by getting into the other lane and crossed right in front of the incoming lorry, and while you turned your head to your right you saw the lights from the lorry blinding and the horn deafening you, and then everything went blank in white. You didn't even had the chance to scream.

But at least you know your sister did.

* * *

You weep.

You weep as you see they lift the body up in a metal body container and into that white van with some Arabic letters at the sides of it, parked inside the porch. You weep as you see your father and mother hug each other. You want to say sorry but the words do not seem to make it pass your throat. The van's door is shut and it starts to move out from the house. The guilt in you builds up fast. You feel as if you are about to explode, especially when you see your mother collapses in your father's arms in tears. You end up being stone cold on your chair, not able to do anything. You feel sorry for them. And worst, you feel sorry for yourself.

If only you let your sister drive last night.

But now it is too late. The damage is done and there is no turning back. You look at the leaving crowd into their cars and most probably escorting the white van to the burying ground, the final destination. You look from afar as your parents enter one of the car and follows behind the van. Now the house is empty, except for one or two relatives given the task to look after the house. It becomes very silent again. You feel your heart breaks into pieces, blood flushes to your face making you feel really bad.

You stand up and fix your clothes and get into one of the relative's vehicle as they drive to the cemetery just a few minutes away from the house, or to be accurate around a kilometer away from the place the accident last night took place. As you travel again on the road, memories keep on hitting on you like a rock does to a glass wall. They just keep on playing in your mind. Imagine, just how loud your sister screamed last night. Thinking of this makes you weep some more.

At the cemetery you look at how they lower the body deep down six feet underground and into the final resting place. It rains lightly when they lower the body, just like last night. They close the body pit with wood planks and start filling the grave with wet soil. You push your way to the edge of the grave and see for yourself how the planks that protect the body from the soil disappear at the soil level increases. In minutes, the grave is ready with two other wood planks erected at each end, signifying the owner of the new grave - a temporary marker with a name on it; a name you don't even have the guts to read on.

As the crowd gathers around the grave, you decide to leave in the rain, but not before you come close to your parents who at the time bury their faces in their hands. You hug and kiss them, telling that you are deeply sorry. As you walk towards the cemetery gate, you can hear the talqin leader reads on the prayers and stuffs, and you swear you hear he mentions that very familiar name, striking into your ears like a thunder. Maybe it is time to leave for good, you think. At least you have given give your sister a final visit at the hospital before you leave this world entirely. Lucky for her, she wasn't even badly injured from the crash, probably because you were protecting her using your own body. She only suffered from a broken rib and a broken finger and that's all. Luck, you tell yourself, she has the luck. She could be a slow driver, but if it was her who drove last night at least you could still be alive today.

Oh well.

As you walk out the cemetery gate, you see a cow standing just right outside, staring at you. It is the same cow from last night. Funny to see it here, really. Well probably he needs a company too? You smile at it and stroke its head gently. After a few caring strokes, you slowly turn around and look again at the crowd gathering at your grave; family, relatives, friends, neighbors, and even your sworn enemies. And then you smile to yourself before turning to the cow again.

Friday, December 03, 2010

She clicked on the mouse and opened her email. She went through all the unread mails, hoping for something. Nothing. It has already been past three hours since the time he was supposed to wish her on their fifth anniversary as husband and wife. He must have forgotten about it again. Well, why wouldn't he be? He had only wished her once during her entire life spent with him, and it was on the first anniversary and that was it. The second, the third and the fourth, he forgot about them all. And if it wasn't because of her being so grumpy in the evenings of the three missed anniversaries, he wouldn't have noticed. No, he wouldn't have noticed about it at all.

Sigh.

She closed the browser and powered off the monitor. The light went off her face instantly, covering her back again into the darkness in her own private room. It was still raining outside. Thunders stroke and wind blew violently. She kept her room dark, as to comply with her own feelings. The only light that lit up the room was from the outside, of sunshine clouded heavily by the stormy weather. Her eyes felt sore.

Sometimes, I wondered why the hell did I marry you? She asked herself.

She admired her husband, actually. He worked really hard to keep the food on the table. But he was hardly at home even on the weekends. He was alway at the plant where he worked at, or his laboratories, or his clients' offices, or everywhere else. She knew he would have never cheated on her - he's the busy bee type, no time for women and even his wife kind of fella. They didn't have children just yet because the husband wanted to focus on his things first before starting a real family, which to this day she still wondered when exactly. Despite she being a director in a real estate company and him being an expert in his fields, both making hell lot of money, they hardly spent them. She never really knew how much he actually made per month, and she always had enough for herself from her paycheck even though he did gave her some dough every now and then.

Well that's just it? Marriage?

Her heart broke into now another million pieces from already millions of pieces since from the past three forgotten celebrations. She wondered where he was at the time. Probably busy with his job - the so called big time engineering job - and forgot about her all along, not to mention about the anniversary. It was only year five. Their love life was once so romantic and warm and affectionate. Well she guessed this must be what it was after being married - no more kisses and heartwarming poetries and shits, let alone presents for the goddamn fifth anniversary. She felt like kicking her desk out the window and hoped it fell and hit someone, hopefully her husband.

Worst, the anniversary fell right a day after her birthday.

The birthday was even worst. She remembered how she waited all night long last night until late but he wasn't home because he was so busy with his works that she ended up sleeping alone on the bed before he came back and emerged into the room (from which she did not notice at all) and slept next to her. It was raining the whole night and she waited if he would have hugged her all night long just like he used to do during their younger days after the wedding, raining or not. But she shivered inside the comforter instead, all alone. When she woke up in the morning, he was already gone to work. The house was all empty and silent and dead, just like every other day. But she was hoping to see something on the table in the hall where he used to leave her presents and cards in the morning as what he referred to as 'surprises'. Well there was already a watch, a pearl necklace, a handbag and that stupidly-looking, oversize shoes he bought when he was abroad sometime back. She wondered what kind of surprises he was up to this time. When she walked out the room and into the hall that morning to look at the table, she was surprised. Very surprised.

No cakes. No presents. No cards. No wishes. Nothing.

And this precisely explained why she came late into the office with a pair of panda eyes, three hours after work started. When she walked past the workstations of her staffs, she could feel all eyes on her. She had to cancel all her appointments with her clients in the morning, and postponed them to other days except for one: a client who she found out to be rather interesting because he wanted to buy one of the houses she had in her real estate deals. It was a posh house - the type of house that was not only pleasant to look at but definitely a bomb, especially when it was located on top of a hill facing the whole city wide. Nobody wanted that house for two years since she first invested in it due to its own price - stunningly high price - until recently when that particular client contacted her company. She fell in love with the house since she first saw it, and despite her attachment to it to make it her own, she had to let the house go. She loved that house, and when compared with the apartment she and her husband currently were living in, which they were renting for, that house was like fifteen thousand times better. But business is business, after all. When she was reminiscing about all these, suddenly the intercom on the table beeped.

"Miss Daria," the intercom said. It was her secretary. "You have an appointment in half an hour time. It was the one you postponed this morning."

"In this weather, I think the client must have canceled it, " she replied while her eyes still looking far off to the horizon from the top of the twenty-floors building. "Did you check?" she asked.

"I did," the secretary responded. "It's still on. Client called and confirmed. He waited there for you since morning despite the postponed meeting." And then the intercom died.

What's wrong with everyone? Goddamn it, she said. How so lazy of her to do anything that day. She looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 3.00pm. The weather was still as thunderous and rainy, perfectly just like what she was feeling inside. With a heavy heart, she took her overcoat and bag and started to make her walk towards the other elevator so that she could avoid her staffs seeing her like that. When she got into the elevator, she fixed herself with the help of the mirrored-wall and faked a smile. She hoped the client won't get too freaked out seeing her like that. She then thought again about her day. She didn't mind if the staffs or anybody else did not wish her for both the occasions. But the husband, her own husband? Not even a text message? She took out her phone from her bag and checked. There was no message nor a call from anybody - not even from her husband.

Typical.

She threw the phone back into the bag and got out from the elevator and into the underground parking area. She got into her car and drove off like a mad hatter, into the heavy rain. The traffic was slow, and she was thankful that the house was only ten kilometers from her office. She ran through on what she needed to do with the client. She was told by her secretary that the client had already met her executives on buying the properties and had already banked-in half the amount of the properties' total price, which was very generous, showing that the client was very interested and serious about buying it. This meant that all she needed to do was to shake the client's hand and award the property for handover. Well there goes my dream house, she whispered to herself, before contemplating when she will be able to buy a house like that, if there will ever be anymore like it. Ironic, for being a property and real estate director who still lived in a rented house, having none of her own. Not that she didn't have the money though, just that she never really thought somebody was going to buy that damn house she loved so much.

When she arrived at the house, she took a look at it for some time, admiring its beauty. She was always here whenever her husband was not around, like he always was, spending her time alone walking through its garden and enjoyed the view. Many times she cried from her frustrations and loneliness from departed warmth of love. Well she will definitely gonna miss the house, other than the need to find a new spot to ease her disturbed mind. The client must be here already. She remembered that her secretary told her that the client just recently quitted his job and he needed to have a place to settle down before he gets himself a simpler job. In the mean time, her secretary said, he wanted to spend more time with his family.

The perfect man that never occurred to her, alright.

She took out an umbrella and carefully walked into the house compound. She noticed that the door was unlocked and left opened, and this made her think - how did the client obtain the keys? Must be one of the managers' work again, she assumed. So without thinking much she put off her shoes and walked into the house with the document bag, ready to meet the new owner of the beloved establishment. But there was no one in the house. She double checked this and made brief search in all rooms and spaces but she couldn't find anybody. When she went pass one of the window, she saw someone - a vision of a man blurred from the rain - bending over at around one of the bushes in the garden, as if he was searching for something. He must be the client.

But what the hell was he doing in the rain?

She left the document bag on the floor of the house. She went out, put her shoes on and walked into the rain with her umbrella but her stilettos sank into the soft ground as she walked, so she decided to take them off and held them hanging by her fingers. As she approached the man, who was in a navy blue shirt all tucked into his long khakis pants, and all wet from the rain, she called for his attentions.

"Hello!" she yelled to match the sound from the rainstorm. "Hello!"

He didn't turn around. He was instead checking flowers - red blood roses - growing by the bushes, one by one of them. She couldn't really see him because the heavy rain was getting heavier. She was on top of a small hill, a part of the house's landscape, while he was at the lower ground.

"Hello!" she yelled again. "Hello! Hey there!"Oh God, she thought, do I need to throw these shoes for your bloody attentions?

"HELLOOO!!"

This time the man picked one of the fully-bloomed blood red rose, broke its stem and turned around after he was satisfied with the rose he picked. He turned around and faced her. He was all wet and his long hair felled and covered his temple and almost his spectacles. He walked towards her, and slowly the vision of the man got cleared as he did.

She lost her grip with the umbrella and it flew away with the wind. Her shoes fell onto the water-soaked field of perfectly-trimmed lawn grass. And she stood there in the rain, slowly getting wet and all stunned with her jaw dropped at maximum.

"I thought you'd never come," the man said as he walked closer to her. He then raised his hand with the rose still in it to her and smiled.

"Happy fifth anniversary, sayang," he said, and as he offered her the rose, which she didn't take because she froze up and her face still in disbelief and her jaw still dropped. He continued to smile as he nodded towards the house, he said,

Thursday, December 02, 2010

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Imagine a fine evening, at a high and spacious veranda of a villa where there is an open beach in front of you, divided by a stretch of beautifully-lit and posh swimming pool and long padded walks at its sides heading towards the beach. The veranda you are in is made from high-grade timber, and the smell of fresh amber and varnish hits your nose like vanilla does - full of masculinity and strength, making you feel rather in control. The weather looks perfect as you stand by the handrail, looking towards the horizon at the end of the ocean, where the sun is already sinking into, creating a sensually-affecting sunset sky covered in velvet, purple and gold. Coconut trees and the perfectly-trimmed bushes and shrubs growing in the garden surrounding the villa intensify the sensational handsomeness of the landscape. The intensely beautiful evening is as well amplified with the slow-blowing salty breeze from the sea, caressing your face just like silk does, and you close your eyes and inhale slowly to feel just how wonderful the evening is as your hands grip on the wooden handrail in such an expressive gesture. Romantic jazz plays through an entertainment system at the corner of the veranda.

As you turn around, you see there are two beautifully-crafted and carved mahogany chair with elaborated armrests facing each other at the center of the shiny wooden floor, where in between of both there is a heavy four-corners dinner table for two, covered in cream-colored linen and silk with maroon skirting towards the lower part of it. The open ceiling of the veranda allows you to see the large wooden beams that support the roof, and in between those beams are lights that shower the room with dim yellow radiance giving strong senses of romanticism and love as the rich glow goes through the thin, wide maroon fabrics that are hanging from the center of the roof and down to each of the veranda's corner. On the table there are a large plate of grilled whole chicken, a bowl of pasta alla carbonara and mixed citrus and melon cuts in another bowl, half-dipped in ice. The tall wine glasses were filled with chilled clear apple cider; luxurious liquid of apple extracts mixed with cinnamon, nutmeg, orange-peel and cloves, as well as other spices, with the remaining still contained in a lucrative bottle at the side of the table. Right in front of each chair is a plate of which there still is remaining food on the each of it, half untouched, and in between them a freshly-picked blood red rose, standing lifelessly in a tall, clear vase.

And on the chair to your left, as you lean against one of the large wooden pillar and you knock one finger on it, a lady in a luxurious and elegant evening gown made from dashing red silk with elaborate extension to the ground, covering a large portion of the floor. She is a goddess in your liking; a tall lady with well-defined curves and fair glowing skin, her long, dark cocoa hair is finely-tied into a bun, showing her long, sensual neck apart from the gold-and-pearl choker she is wearing. Her lips are covered in red while her high cheek bones radiate from the glow. She sits with one of her legs crossing on the other, her hands resting on it and her eyes looking at the floor, her head remains unmoved. You gently undo your wrist buttons detaching them from the holding cufflinks and then untighten your silk necktie, throwing them on the floor. You put a hand on your temple and comb your long hair with your fingers to the back.

And then it begins.

You march towards the table and you pick your glass up and drink from it. And then you hold the glass in your hand and admire the setting sun once again before your head turns and you look at the lady in front of you, sitting very still and very quiet in her chair with that sad look in the face. In a sudden you throw the glass at one of the wall, piercing sound hits your ears. You pick the plates up and throw them on the floor and they break into a thousand pieces. You lift up the chair and throw it to the corner and it bangs as it hits the audio speaker and the player, crushing them all. You pick up the end of the table and lift it sideway, throwing every other things that were on it as the table turns. And then you bend over and pick the apple cider bottle and knock its end on the edge of the table, breaking the bottom leaving sharp edges around it. You are breathing heavily and you feel heavy traces of disappointments, resentments, hatred, disgusts and for all that matters, anger. Your face reddens so much that it resembles a smoldering amber and charcoal at some point.

You grip the bottle head you are holding so forcefully that the it breaks in your hand, piercing shrapnels of glasses into your palm hitting the bones. But you do not shriek nor make any other noticeable sound, for what you feel inside is more painful than what you feel from your bleeding hand. You feel cheated. You feel crossed-with. You feel played, that you have been made into a fool. A fool who trusts endlessly, wholeheartedly, unconditionally. Your eyes shed tears from these mixed feelings in your heart. Before your eyes there plays a visual of those great moments both of you share together, adding more insult to the injury. Now that your trusts were breached without you seeing it coming, you can never feel anymore betrayed.

The jeweleries. The house and the cars. The endless cash supplies. And this is how she paid you with. Well what do you do?

Your lady was going out with men behind your back, well what do you do?

Your lady was drinking and smoking and dancing for men behind your back, well what do you do?

Your lady becomes a sexual innuendo and the lollipop for other men, well what do you do?

Your lady was having good times with your cash while you were working hard for it each god damn day, well what do you do?

Do you hit her with your bleeding hand?

Do you kick her in the eyes like you did to those chaps while defending her from them sometime ago?

Do you deliver a punch straight on her throat like you did to that boy who called her everyday before?

Do you step on her stomach like you did to that mailman who sneaked on her the other day?

Do you slam her face on and through the table like you did to the guy who tried to rob her months back?

Do you break her spine like you did to the man who constantly sent her texts at night a year back?

Or do you do nothing at all and just stand there in disappointment? Your bruised, no, your stabbed-for-multiple-times ego and your broken heart bleed by the minute as you look at her in total disbelief. Could it be the end of it? Could this be the finale for the dreams you both build together? The whole thing? Well do you want it to be? You partially do, but the battle is no ongoing in between this and the rest of you. Her face looks up at you begging for mercy with none of a word said, tears endlessly running down her cheeks smearing her makeup. Her hands shiver in fear from what was unleashed from you. The blood from your hand falls onto her dress, blending in with its color. But you just look at her from those cold, cold eyes that get colder as your thoughts linger. You don't move. You don't know what to do. You still don't know what to do.

As this post is written, it is raining heavily outside my window. The wind blow slowly into this small space guarded by four col, sky-protruding walls I call a room, my room. The lights are all off, giving some sort of melancholic atmosphere to the surrounding. Not a sound is heard but those of the drops of rain hitting everything they are falling onto, at this very particular moment. Stands in front of me a cup of steamy hot coffee, black and sugared to perfection. Next to it is a box of cigarettes, filtered, filled with diced fine Virginian tobacco mixed with some other things that somewhat give the cigarette a very strong taste with major hint of Turkish blend. This taste I like very much, hence the reason why one of the cigarettes is smoldering slowly, hanging steadily in between my lips.

The rain observed from the pantry's window.

By nature, the weather this particular evening gives this very peculiar feeling; a subtle mix of calmness, stillness and peacefulness. The sorts of feelings that soothe one down, and put him at ease. How spectacular, this feeling is. And this smell, the sweet smell that lingers around my nose, refreshingly original and royal. The smell of wet rocks and freshly-trimmed green grasses and the smell of fresh water hang in the air, blanketing me with this strange but joyful and memorable sensation of being perfectly alive.

Speaking of being alive, I have met recently some of the most suicidal people I have ever known this entire 25 years (and counting, God bless me) of my life. Some of them are better, some of them are worst and the rest of them are still at stake to fall into any of the previously-mentioned states. There were various reasons for their suicidal state, but mostly in my eyes were just being too confused and lost, not knowing exactly what to do, to which disappointment and giving up follow. They were just tired of life and just how things were going, so they decided to end it.

Human, being the only living thing that could contemplate on suicide and carry it out, live on very complex lives everyday. It is easy to spot on the similarities in between two people, for example me and you - we eat, we sleep, we drink and we shit - but lives are not defined as easily as that. People do not see the oftentimes hidden detailed in each specific person's life that make him or her different to another. Per se, there could not be a person who lives perfectly similar like you do, every little day. Therefore, despite the advance understanding in human psychology, there are still spots that experts still do not fully understand, especially in the context of suicide.

I was once in this state, sometime back.

I was depressed, the exact word to define my state then, on all over too many things. But mostly it wasn't the depression that drove me into being suicidal. Nihilism did. According to the Wikipedia;

"Nihilism is the philosophical doctrine suggesting the negation of one or more meaningful aspects of life. Most commonly, nihilism is presented in the form of existential nihilism which argues that life is without objective meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value. Moral nihilists assert that morality does not inherently exist, and that any established moral values are abstractly contrived. Nihilism can also take epistemological, metaphysical or ontological forms, meaning respectively that, in some aspect, knowledge is not possible or that contrary to our belief, some aspect of reality does not exist as such."

In short, I found out that this life has no particular purpose, which later I learned that is a common traits in those who "knew too much" relative to everybody else of specific common grounds. I didn't know too much back then nor I knew too much now, but relatively I could say that as compared to those my age surrounding me I could be knowing just way too much. This is of course not way too much of a bragging, nor it could be any tips of self-acclaiming wonder. This is a fact and perhaps I could explain about it a little bit from hereon.

I read a lot of philosophical books written by many philosophers dating back to the age of the Romans, and they stated life differently in their publications, sometimes crossing each other in the matter. Apart from the usual science-related readings, I then got myself involved in philosophical science and arguments and discussions with my closely-related mates who have the exact same way of how I think followed. The works of Hemingway and Boltzmann and fellow suicidal others contributed to the effects of me to rethink about life and how things were going.

At this point, don't preach to me about religion(s), and don't you ever say to me that none of you who are reading this never in the past contemplated on ending your life pretty quickly over some delusional matters.

People come and go telling just how beautiful this life is, and alas, how surprising it is to see just how they break down one day and blaming it all on life. This is nothing purely uncommon; I'm pretty sure you have seen all these all the times. All around you people are popping sleeping pills, tying rope knots on the house beams and driving off the cliffs. These are not the people whom we know are perfectly disturbed since they first started breathing using their lungs in this world. They are just common people like everybody else, like me and you. But nihilism brings them to an end of no return, and perhaps as we speak there are at least some people who are doing the aforementioned, and succeeded.

Life is a terrible thing that ever going to happen to a person. Life is no hanky-panky, yakety-yak kind of funfair where all are fun and entertaining. Life is as murderous as it is torturous. People ask you to go around and seek the beauty that life can ever offer: fall in love, go nature, play in the rain, whatsoever. And you did. And when you failed in love, you saw how nature was broken down, you slipped in the rain and your head knocked on the concrete drain, whatsoever, and then you started to realize that, damn it, life isn't as beautiful. You get a couple of these things every now and then building up in you, and soon you will see yourself looking at the road to nowhere.

I broke the chains that placed me in life-breaking moments sometime after that, most probably a year or so until I finally see something that could make myself put aside the thoughts of being a nihilist. I saw that at the end of the day, everyone has to be alive to keep the world running, regardless their level of unhappiness, since to me everyone is unhappy. So we just gotta do what we gotta do and die when the time comes, and someone else will either continue or recreate what appears to us as our own history.

So until that day come, we might just as well sit down and shut up.

* * *

Circa 2006;

I was in the middle of this conversation in between two of the greatest minds I ever knew. Let's call them Frank and Paulie for confidential purposes. They just met for the first time. Paulie was a senior manager while Frank was a project manager with a big mouth, both foreigners.

Paulie: So Frank, tell me about your work.
Frank: Well I'm an engineer, working at a firm with big projects coming up, and I get paid like ten grand a month.
Paulie: You married?
Frank: I am, to such a wonderful and beautiful wife the world can ever imagine (his wife was a model) and I have a pair of kids I will never be able to buy with my worldly possessions.
Paulie: So tell me where you live, and what car you drive.
Frank: By the bay, good man Paulie, I live by the bay. In a beach-side villa that my wife and I bought together, overlooking the open sea where we can see beautiful sunsets everyday while we hang out at the lawn with the kids playing in our sights. And I drive a Mercedes, a posh C-class.

At this point, Paulie rubbed both his hands and clamped them together on the table, smiling while looking at it. The discussion was in pause for a while, until Paulie opened his mouth again.

"So tell me, Frank," he said while nodding his head, his lips still smiling. "Are you happy?"

Frank's face changed and he never said a single word after that, his eyes looked far beyond the horizon of time as if he was thinking deeply. He committed suicide in 2007.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Here I am, around 15 miles away from Ipoh, the largest and most happening town available closest to me in a 50-mile range. The second to that would be Lumut, a nautical town somewhere on the opposite direction of Ipoh from where I currently am - 2 km off Tronoh, an old and old mining town that has lost its fame in the maps of the riches tin deposits in the world, located just in between of the main road one must take to go to Ipoh and Lumut. It's Friday night, and I need to go to some places with hangouts and dine-ins for the sake of living the white collar dreams.

The question now is, where to?

Let's do a check on Ipoh. There are some fine-dining outlets in Ipoh, I guess, and the most familiar place I have been would be the Moven Peak. There are some good western and oriental food offered and a list of good coffees, but being there every now and then kills the mood. Some fast-food and franchise outlets opened business early this year, where now Ipoh has a Burger King, an Ayam Penyet shop, and some other that I could hardly, just to add to the usual McDonald's and Pizza Hut and KFC and Johnny's. Next in the list will be Nasi Vanggey - a description given to the food that until today I have not been able to fully understand of its meaning. And then the posh Nasi Padang place next to Casuarina and Kalai Curry House follow on.

In terms of entertainment, well there are some clubs that I swear I'll never be in any of them, except Rum Jungle. I don't know what Rum Jungle is. Looking back at my history of being there, it could be anything in between a dance club of house and a bit of techno music or a lounge that plays live Havana music to the dance floor. Very confusing, really. Next in entertainment will be hanging out at some hangout spots around the town, mostly those that get boring right after midnight. And there are only two big cinemas - The TGV in a 2-and-a-half story Jusco and another one in Ipoh Parade.

And that's about it.

In Lumut, the only well-established places for dine-in are McDonald's, Pizza Hut and KFC, scattered around the town and its surrounding, in between the mostly overpriced local seafood outlets and of course some mamak's, for the night outers could possibly die without them. And that's about it. Unless if I want to eat on sand and drink on seawater, there's pretty much nothing the place can offer. And there's like endless supply of seawater from the open Straits of Malacca. Good sights sometimes, bad sceneries most of the time, especially at night. At one time you can see the lights of passing ships from over the horizon, and at one time you can see a Mat Rempit humping on a Bohsia on their two ringgit bike.

There are no TGI Fridays. No Dunkin Doughnuts, only the super sugary J Co. No Subway sandwiches. No Tony Roma's. No Bora Ombak and Bora Asmara. No Domino's, no star walk, no uptown. There's a night market that sells some fake items at the center of the town. And other than Padini and Esprit and Fossil and, my God I can barely recall, there's nothing else I assume. On coffee, there are only these places: A Starbucks, a Black Canyon, a Coffee Bean, and duh, Oldtown White Coffee. For Oldtown, I only prefer the outlet next to Ipoh Padang, where there are less people generally and teens especially, who go there with their ladies (girls) with barely boobs, making scenes here and there at times. According to my drinking friends, booze and boobs go together. According to me, coffee and boobs don't. Even more disappointing, the Clearwater Golf Club closes early at 11.00pm and the place is more or less dead after that.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Seriously it has really been a while now since I last wrote in this blog. There were some people who pressed me much into writing again but, despite being a reluctant man I am, I have to refuse due to some issues that can directly be related to what appears to be my thesis writing. I am now bored and tired of writing my thesis - a long, complicated, way too detailed, way too time consuming and way too boring set of writing, comprising of engineering calculations, drawings, figures and tables - and therefore here I am writing again in this blog just to shut some people up for nagging on me endlessly for it.

I was with Timmy G. this evening, having some manly conversation (or at least what we thought it was) on some particular types of women that generally have destroyed some of known associates; good men they were before they met these types of ladies, and began to go downhill soon after that.

Now that Timmy G. has left, after taking a cup of (my) coffee and had some sticks of (my) cigarettes, might as well I share about what we talked about with you. Provided that I have met, somehow, various kinds of females and, somewhat, ended up with some of them and, somewhere, along the line destroyed some parts of me, I think I have quite a decent knowledge on these ladies. Quite on the egoistical part of me that constantly protested, I still think it could be quite a good topic - Vicious Venus - to be discussed this particular evening, where there were heavy rains outside my window, a cup of hot coffee on my table and a stick of freshly-lit cigarette in between my lips.

I am not going to talk about the whole bunch of women that are out there and constantly causing troubles to their men, and also I am not saying that all women destroyed their men, only some of them do and did. So save your ammo, women, and sit back and relax now.

Let's start with this one. This type of women generally affects men with what I proposed to Timmy G. as The Cheerleader Effect. To point out this kind of women is simple: they are mostly good looking, loud, do not know exactly how to do house chores (they thought they did but believe me people they didn't), overly pampered, take nagging (annoy or irritate a person with persistent faultfinding or continuous urging) as a hobby and they are so lazy when it comes to things other than beauty, gossips, physically hot males, killing a rival and nagging - the sort of laziness that makes them into couch potatoes whole day long that you'd swear that if they were donkeys you would have deliver a kick straight into their stomachs just to get them going. These women commonly are not bright; the furthest they can go with math is grade 6 arithmetics. When it comes to practical productivity, these women are practically useless. But they stand out perfectly in the crowd - the real reason why they usually be the target of males, sex offenders and porn directors, because in their eyes these men they usually mean one thing: ...well I don't really need to say it do I now? I call this type of women as bitches.

What? Hey don't give me that look. Even you all call them bitches, you hypocrite double-faced panties!

Now these women (bitches) usually are so proud of themselves from their extensive beauty. They commonly have good heights, nearly-perfect body curves, silky long hairs, well taken care of nails and skins, and facial frame of goddesses, but with a brain of a goat in each of their heads. They commonly appear on fashion shows and magazines (again, not all of them, so calm the milk down already) as models, not knowing that they are being manipulated for the fashion industry and, in a hidden point, for men entertainment industry. Why men entertainment industry? Well if they really want to sell just the clothes, they just might as well show the clothes on the floor, hanging on some cloth hangers or just put them on mannequins, no? Let's take a look at these two following pictures:

Plain White T, no model

Plain White T, with a model

See how these pictures somehow changed the presentation of the same thing - a plain white tee basic? That was exactly what I talked about. But of course, upon way too much interference with the fashion business, the economy will soon collapse due to what appear to be consumerism factor - people buy stuffs they saw on other people's body because they thought they will look good in them, just like the other people are, which is most of the time dead wrong. Enough with the fashion industry, let's roll back into our bitches.

Due to their sex appeals, they often fall into the hands of men with bad (to some people it's good) intentions. This makes them feel as if they are the center of gravity for men, hence increase their sense of being bitchy. This will start into a collective ego that developed around them, and knowing that they can have as many men as they want (as long as those skins are still tight) they start trashing men whom they think do not provide just enough. Provision of money, jewelries and stuffs to these women by men are more or less to keep them around and shut them up, and most men don't mind doing it providing that they have the moolah, just so that the women stay and shut the hell up. And these unknowing ladies thought their men loved them, but for what specifically was never really dug into. They don't even make the best wife to begin with, anyway.

They're just for fun, actually.

But these men don't often realize that they are spending just way too much for women that by hook or by crook will leave at the end of the day. And when they realize, it is often way too late, and there they are, upset, disappointed and devastated while looking at what appears to be broken dreams. And by then, the women would already have been with somebody else. Talking about just how the world goes nowadays, eh?

With more and more entertainment that constantly trash men, the respect for men slowly fades. Songs and more songs on how to trash men are now can be listened to in open broadcasts. Younger generations hum to these types of songs and hence the troubles in linking men-to-women these days. Relationship fails before time and marriages get blown up every second now and then, due to this wrongly-understood women power thing. See it for yourselves, sit down and think about it. Why, why it happens?

Just tell me why.

p/s: I hope by writing this won't get myself banned in females' mags. I want to send in my celebration greetings to them just like they did in Utusan too you know!

Friday, October 29, 2010

Moving on now to another thing that is worth to talk about today. A rather interesting topic, I'd say. Today, I will introduce to all of you the discussion on 'whether or not I should study abroad', best discussed in lengthy but awfully entertaining writing I am certainly known for, though not by all but at least by some who have found this blog to be worth reading.

There was a time, and then another time soon after that, and again, and then a few days after that, and so on, that people came to me and asked: "Why did not you continue studying oversea?"

Tricky question. Do I answer them with apologetic smiles, sad faces or lengthy arguments? Well I am not the type who makes faces when approached, so as expected I usually gave them a lengthy explanation that sometime I think how they would have wished that I was abroad at the time to save the trouble, and just how regretting they were for even having the slightest thought to ask a person, somewhat to be me, that "why did not you continue to study abroad?", particularly for my postgraduate studies.

Let's take a look at my arguments:

There are two types of Master's Degree; one by course and one by research.

Master's Degree by course means that anybody who applies for it will have to go through a series of long-hour lectures, do assignments, attend some tests, write endless reports and in the end go for examinations from which soon after that their overall performances will be graded accordingly to a point to decide whether or not they pass everything to earn themselves some Master's Degree. The good thing about this type of Master's Degree is that it is shorter in time to complete, but the people who have them might get in trouble soon when they apply for Ph.D, from which many universities do not accept students with Master's Degree by course because the students do not have any particular background in research. Ph.D normally is done by research, therefore essentially anybody who wants to apply for it has to have sufficient background in research, hence the need of a Master's Degree by research.

Master's Degree by research, which I currently am doing, is a type of study where a student will have a supervisor and co-supervisors to report to about any kind of research they are particularly doing. These supervisor and co-supervisors will assist in the research by monitoring the student's performance and progress with an aim to complete all the objectives of research in times. Research here means a lot of literature reading, simulations, experiments, calculations, thinking and every other respective technical skills in order for the student to carefully analyze and justify his findings, as well as to defend his findings before a panel of experts in more often than not the same field. Research takes long period to complete, usually more than year but less than 3 years for Master's Degree. Normally there will be no classes to attend, and most of the time the students are left to hang around with vast knowledge database for them to mine the data into their own specific usage.

Now that's pretty much clear.

My research is on biomass; carbonaceous materials normally derived from plants. My aim is to convert this carbonaceous biomass into combustible gas that can replace diesel and petrol in internal combustion engines. My research is done empirically (English: by experiments) and all I need is a lab, some tools, some machines, some delicate instruments and whatnots. And fund. Give me enough fun and I can design a 5-Megawatt gas-powered steam turbine for electric generation at an allocated time.

I am an engineer. I was brought up for five years in an engineering school, fed with engineering knowledge and mingled with engineering people. I do things with purpose. I wear a shirt because I need to cover my body from weathering factors, that is my primary motive, and then the secondary motives follow: to impress, to improve looks, to cause stir in calmness whatsoever.

Therefore, I stayed in the country because 1) my purpose is to get an M.Sc by research, 2) by producing combustible gas from biomass, 3) that can be done locally.

Sometimes, some very, very ignorant people out there looked down on me because I chose to do my M.Sc locally, in my previous campus where I obtained my B.Eng. What is the big thing of going oversea? What is there in oversea that these people look up high to? If I am there now, I'd still be doing research, I'd still need funds, I'd still need equipments and whatsoever. Could it be the weather? Or the quality of research? What do you mean by quality of research? A research's quality is determined from the performance of the researcher, not where it is done.

There was this uncle who told everyone that his daughter obtained a Ph.D in medicine in just a single year. Yeah, right. What am I la, an uneducated, empty-minded bottle of used mosquito repellent? And who is your daughter la, Marie Curie is it?

And some of these oversea graduates are so arrogant with their oversea-produced degrees. As if they are Einsteins or something.

I don't know what is the big prestige of going oversea. Unless if I was enrolling into the MIT or the Department of Engineering Science of Oxford, that is different story. Or if I need a particle accelerator, a nuclear fusion reactor, a volcano, Giant Magellan Telescope or a Hadron SuperCollider, then yes I will be abroad for a reason that we don't have all of them available here in Malaysia. But all I need are a gas chromatography instrument, mercury manometers, precision weight, volume & density device, a convection oven, Type-K and Type-N thermocouples, a scanning electron microscope, a highly-radioactive X-Ray Diffuser machine and other instruments that all are available as we speak, locally.

Here in Malaysia, I am closer to my family. There are plenty of good food around, and I feel very much comfortable here. The people are nice and they treat me as one of them, well of course. It is easy for me to obtain things I need here and by knowing some key people, my works were completed rather quickly. I can have almost everything I need and both my purposes are fulfilled. End of the day, almost all Master's Degree holders are paid according to their qualifications not where they did their studies.

I feel no shame to further my study here. No shame at all. The campus has been internationally-accredited and so far we are at the top of the list nationwide. My published papers are being read worldwide. One of my paper was also published oversea. So these examples show that there is generally no clear difference between studying locally and abroad, other than the weather, the culture and all other things non-academic except for some very distinctive research i.e. genome research and particle physics that are currently being conducted at an advance rate abroad but not here.

And to this one particular guy who studied the effects of hydrogen injections in some delicate bio-chemical system by means of simulation modelling oversea, and showed off to some of my Master's Degree freshmen recently: Well boy, apparently an undergraduate student is doing the same thing here locally, by means of the good old experimental method. "I'm a genius," you said. "You people are idiots," you said. Well what do you know? An undergraduate student is doing exactly what you did, only that she is doing it empirically, producing more reliable, well-analyzed results and sets of data that properly responded to conditional climate settings and surrounding factors that none of which you introduced in your so-called oversea Master's Degree by research, you jackass.

To those who are currently doing thy Master's Degree oversea, well carry on. This post is not meant to bash any of you, except those who deserve it at best. For instance, the self-proclaimed genius mentioned above.

Well there's this one turn-down for not having to study oversea: I cannot send my pictures to Utusan each time it's Raya.